Pollyanna Rides Shotgun

Apparently I am now the Official Driver of Summer.

School is almost out, the evenings stay light until practically bedtime, and suddenly my calendar is full of soccer pickups, middle school drop offs, entrepreneurial ventures, and emergency snack runs.

And honestly? I love it.

Each grandchild has their own style. Their own rhythm. Their own agenda for our “special time” together. I know this because they actually wrote it in my birthday cards this year — they like our one-on-one time in the car.

Which melted me into a small grandmother puddle.

One grandson is an entrepreneur. I recently drove him to a friend’s house so they could hold a yard sale of clothes. Ninth graders now apparently run resale businesses with more confidence than most adults I know.

Another spends an astonishing amount of time making his hair look like he just rolled out of bed after sleeping under a bridge. This apparently requires products, careful fluffing, and deep concentration.

One asked to borrow earrings.

Another wanted mascara for his “almost mustache.”

I said no to sharing mascara but admired the commitment to personal grooming.

The youngest — now somehow in middle school, which seems biologically impossible — is wonderfully nostalgic. He likes to go through my jewelry box and ask where each piece came from. Not because it’s valuable. Because it has a story.

“That was Grandma’s.”
“I bought that on a trip.”
“Your grandfather liked those earrings.”
“I wore that to your mother’s graduation.”

I only wear earrings these days, but apparently I have become a tiny traveling museum of family history.

And every morning on the drive to school, I learn something new:

middle school politics,
new slang,
sports drama,
who likes whom,
teacher opinions,
strange YouTube trends,
and the endlessly evolving rules of teenage existence.

It keeps me connected to becoming instead of just remembering.

Maybe that’s one reason I’ve become so protective of optimism as I get older.

Not fake optimism. Not “good vibes only.” Real optimism. The kind that notices delight when it appears:

a funny conversation,
a shared iced coffee,
a kid who trusts you enough to ramble,
a summer evening drive with the windows cracked.

At this stage of life, I find myself drawn toward people who leave me feeling lighter instead of heavier. More curious instead of more exhausted.

Maybe that makes me a Pollyanna.

Honestly? I’ll take it.

Because there are worse things than finding joy in mascara mustaches, chaotic hair, yard sales, and middle school carpool confessions.

THE AMAZING SECOND ACT

My first Mother’s Day was two weeks before Kate was born.

Technically, I suppose I was already a mother. It was a perfect pregnancy, craving only oranges which my hubby dutifully peeled for me. Wondering if I would ever sleep comfortably again. But it didn’t feel real yet.  

Motherhood still seemed like a shiny Hallmark concept involving brushed hair, smiling babies, and women who somehow folded tiny socks without crying.

Then Kate arrived.  And just like that, Mother’s Day changed forever.  We went to the hospital at 8:00am and she was born at 5:17pm

Mother's Day isn't because of gifts or flowers or breakfast trays balanced precariously over sleeping mothers.  It's because suddenly, there was this little person wandering through my life leaving behind tiny moments that would somehow become permanent fixtures in my heart.

Like the preschool open house when she was about two-and-a-half.  The teachers had made litle hand cut outs for all the mothers to each write their name. Construction paper. Glue. Probably glitter — because preschool classrooms operate under the assumption that everything improves with glitter.

On my tag Kate carefully wrote across it in crooked preschool letters:

“MOM”

That was it. One word. Three letters. And honestly? I think it’s still one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.

Then there was the preschool play where she dressed as a witch.  Her big line was supposed to be:

“Come here, my little pretty.”

We practiced. And practiced. And practiced.

But when the moment came ... standing there in her little costume in front of all those parents ... she threw her tiny arms wide open and proudly declared:

“Come to me, fweetheart!”

The audience laughed. I nearly levitated from love.

Some children are mischievous. Some are wild. Some test every boundary known to mankind.  Mine once accidentally got a crayon mark on the sofa… and put herself in time out.

No lecture required. No dramatic parental speech. Just a devastated little girl silently marching herself away to reflect upon her crimes against upholstery.

Honestly, I should’ve bottled whatever personality trait caused that.

Mother’s Day itself has became its own collection of family stories over the years.

My sister once bought SIX identical Mother’s Day cards — one for each sibling to send to our mother.

Inside we all wrote a tiny note:

“I know you like me best.”

Frankly, that may still be the funniest and most efficient holiday shopping strategy in family history.

And then there was my mother-in-law.

She adored getting a Mother’s Day card from me because I married her only child. There was something especially tender about that relationship as the years went on. I wasn’t just celebrating my own motherhood anymore ... I was honoring the women who came before me, too.

That’s one thing nobody tells you when you’re younger.  Mother’s Day keeps changing.  At first it’s about your own mother.  Then suddenly it’s about sticky fingerprints, school projects, and tiny voices calling “Mommmmm!” from another room every six minutes.

Then one day ... almost impossibly ... you become the grandmother.  And oh my goodness.

I always thought being a mama on Mother’s Day was special, but there’s nothin’ quite like being a grandmother.

Because now I get to relive it all.

The wonder. The chaos. The tiny sneakers by the door. The funny mispronunciations. The impossible amount of food growing boys can consume in under seven minutes.

Each grandson arrived carrying his own little sack of joy straight into my heart.  And the beautiful thing about grandmotherhood is this:

You realize the ordinary moments were never ordinary at all.

The crayon marks.

The preschool performances.

The handmade cards.

The crooked little “MOM.”

Those are the things that stay.

Not the spotless house.
Not the perfect holidays.
Not whether dinner was organic.

Just love.

Messy, funny, exhausting, unforgettable love.

And if I’m lucky, someday one of those boys will be writing about us too.  (Although hopefully not about the time I let them eat tortilla chips and guacamole for dinner).

Happy Mother’s Day to the mamas, grandmas, stepmoms, chosen moms, grieving moms, hopeful moms, and every woman who has ever loved a child with her whole heart.

Even when they drew on the sofa.

Braeden, October 2010

     

Deacon, March 2014

The Wonderful (and Slightly Exhausting) Month of May

May is a beautiful mix of memories, milestones… and a surprising number of things I’m apparently expected to attend.

The weather improves, native plants bloom, and suddenly everyone is outdoors pretending they’ve always loved fresh air. There are May Day rallies, community events, and—today—the Lake Oswego Lake Run, where people voluntarily run distances I wouldn’t drive without snacks.
   

my coping strategy

It all begins with my birthday on May 1—shared with two delightful “birthday twins.” I also hear from my insurance company, dentist, and financial planner, which feels less like celebration and more like a gentle reminder to stay alive and solvent.

May 2 is what I call my Heavenly Memory Day. It marks the anniversary of my husband’s passing after a long fight with prostate cancer. And in a move that was both thoughtful and just a little inconvenient timing-wise, he waited until the day after my birthday so as not to overshadow the festivities.
  

Heavenly Memory Day

In his final three days, we had Mr. Ralph at home in a hospital bed, facing the fabulous back oasis he created. Four dear friends (we were in Maui ... because he didn't want to die in the rain) gathered with us. We tied balloons to his bed rail, shared a Scotch toast, and the next morning, we released those balloons into the sky. It was simple, meaningful… and exactly the kind of send-off he would have appreciated.

And because May believes in balance, it continues with:

• the Kentucky Derby (big hats, tiny horses, questionable betting decisions),
• Cinco de Mayo (my annual excuse to eat my weight in chips and guacamole),
• multiple family birthdays (clearly August was a busy month decades ago), including my daughter on May 22,
• Mother’s Day (where expectations vary wildly),
• and Memorial Day, when we pause to remember what really matters… and also argue about whether it’s too early to put out the patio furniture.   

May holds everything—joy, grief, laughter, remembrance… and a calendar that suddenly requires a spreadsheet.

It’s a lot.

But somehow… it’s also just right.

Well ... except for the allergies ...

Be kind. I'm suffering!

THE RIGHT WORD

At my age (73 and 11/12, but who’s counting), I don’t get excited about much. But give me the right word? I will ride that high all day.

There are moments in life when I can't find the right word ... nothing fits. Not “annoying” as it is far more than just annoying.  Not “difficult.” Not even “what on earth is wrong with people?”

And then...just like finding the perfect pair of jeans ...I discover … the right word. Suddenly everything makes sense to my situation.

This week?  Martinet.

A strict enforcer of rules, often to an unreasonable degree.

Oh hello. Where have you been all my life?  This week a WLLO General (volunteer) sent me five emails before 9am screwing down on everything I did the day before. Like she got up on the wrong side of her broom.

The Joy of “Naming It”

This is my real theme: When I finally have the right word, I feel: calmer, validated, a bit superior (I'm being honest here)

It’s not just a word. It’s closure.

A few other words from this month ~

Luddite
Someone who resists new technology.  The annoying part is that they then ASK for us to look it up for them.

Dithering
Unable to make a decision.  It seems like we have several team leaders here at WLLO who have this this inability to commit.  Which often looks like some volunteers should do a task a certain way, but other volunteers are not required to do so.

Oblivious
Completely unaware.  Rarely responds when the situation calls for an email.  Then suddenly weighs in when they are not even remotely involved in a particular decision.  OBLIVIOUS.

Of course, once you start collecting “right words”… you realize some of them apply a little closer to home. (Like "intransigent" applies to me quite often, I'm sure)

At this age, I’m not trying to fix people. I’m just trying to understand them … preferably with a really excellent vocabulary.

I may not say these words out loud. But in my head? I am now extremely well-spoken.

AM I SO VAIN?

I asked myself this very serious, very philosophical question while standing at my bathroom counter, sleeves rolled up, staring at my forearms like they had personally betrayed me.

(photo taken on my bedspread rather than white countertop)

When did they get… freckly? Speckly? Spotty? When did they start looking like a topographical map of the Oregon Trail? And more importantly— why was I suddenly planning a weekly “Zap Night”?

This Sunday, I officially begin my new skincare routine:

• One Braun Silk-expert Pro 5 IPL

• One bottle of something called AmLactin (which sounds suspiciously like farm equipment)

• A retinol that warns me—gently—“you may experience mild irritation” (translation: buckle up)

And just to really round things out…

I’m buying my kid a red light therapy panel for her 40th birthday in May. For her, of course. Absolutely for her. I will simply be … testing it. Extensively. On my face. Daily.

Now before you judge me, let me explain. This is not vanity. This is… maintenance.

The same way we:

• color our hair
• wear readers in every room of the house
• and make a small, dignified noise every time we stand up

We adapt. Because somewhere along the way, something shifts. At 30, you look in the mirror and think: “Do I look okay?” At 50, you think: “Is that new?” At 70+, you think: “Well … THAT wasn’t there yesterday.”

And yet… here’s the thing. I don’t actually want to look 30. I don’t even want to look 50. I just want to look like me… but slightly less sun-damaged. Is that too much to ask?

(why yes! those are not my legs)

So yes.
Starting today, April 19, I will be quietly zapping my arms and hands. Every Sunday.

On Monday, I will be exfoliating.

On Tuesday, I will be renewing. And wearing little white cotton gloves to bed.

And at some point after May 22, I will be sitting in front of a glowing red panel like I’m trying to contact extraterrestrial life.

And honestly?  I’m kind of okay with it.  Because this isn’t about chasing youth.

It’s about taking care of the skin that got me here.

The same hands that:

• drove carpools
• held babies
• worked in the yard
• made dinners
• and now… occasionally hold a glass of wine while Googling “age spots vs something worse”

These old hands and arms deserve a little attention.

So am I vain?

Maybe.

But I prefer to think of it as selective enthusiasm for not looking like a parchment document from 1847.

And if you need me Sunday night… I’ll be in the bathroom. Zapping.

BE KIND. It’s Not THAT Hard ...

There’s a little sign making the rounds lately that simply says: “Be kind. It’s not that hard.”

And every time I see it, I think:
Well… theoretically.  Because if kindness were truly not that hard, we wouldn’t need the reminder printed on mugs, stitched on pillows, or—if I had my way—tattooed on a few foreheads.

I had one of those days.

You know the kind.  Where most everyone is being perfectly pleasant… and yet somehow, by the end of it, you feel like you’ve been gently steamrolled by a parade of good intentions.

No one is yelling.
No one is being mean.
But also? No one is really listening.

Kindness isn’t just about tone. It’s not the cheerful “Hi there!” or the exclamation point at the end of a sentence. It’s not the appearance of being nice.

Kindness is awareness.

It’s noticing that someone has already rearranged their schedule—and maybe not rearranging it again.
It’s understanding that “I’m not able to attend” is not an invitation to negotiate.  It’s recognizing that not everyone thrives in the same environments, at the same volume, at the same pace.

Kindness, it turns out, requires a tiny bit of effort. Not a lot. Just… a pause. And here’s the tricky part.

Most people think they’re being kind.

They’re organizing.
They’re including.
They’re following “procedures.”
They’re making sure everything is just so.

All very admirable. But kindness isn’t about how something looks from your side of the table.  It’s about how it lands on the other side.

I’ve spent a good portion of my life softening things.

Adding extra words.
Smoothing edges.
Explaining—oh, the explaining—so no one might possibly misunderstand.

But lately, I’m learning something new. Kindness also includes being kind to yourself. And sometimes that looks like this:

“No, I’m not able to do that.”

Full stop. No essay. No apology tour. No supporting documentation. Just… no.

The funny thing is, when you start doing that, the world does not end. People adjust. Or they don’t.
But either way, you’re no longer exhausted from trying to make everyone else comfortable at your own expense.

And that, my friends, feels like a small miracle.

So yes. Be kind. Truly kind.

Not just in tone, but in action. In awareness. In restraint. Listen a little more. Push a little less. Assume that if someone says “no,” they’ve already thought it through.

Because kindness isn’t complicated.

It’s just… apparently… harder than it looks.“Be kind. It’s simple. Just not always easy.”

P.S.  There are some days I have to make a post-it that says BE KIND and stick it on my laptop.

I have a question. A simple one. When did ordering coffee start requiring a translator, a glossary, and possibly a minor in chemistry?

Back in my day—(and yes, I hear myself saying that, thank you very much)—you walked into a coffee shop and said one of three things:

“I’ll have coffee.”
“I’ll have coffee with cream.”
Or, if you were feeling wild:
“Coffee. Black.”

And that was it. No follow-up questions. No clarifications. No emotional journey. You paid. You received coffee. You left.

Now?

Now I stand in line behind someone who orders: A tall half-caf oat milk matcha latte with an extra shot, caramel swirl, two pumps of vanilla, light foam, extra hot—but not too hot—in a grande cup.

In a grande cup.

Which is not, as one might assume, the same as a tall. Because of course it isn’t.

And here’s the thing—I’m not even mad at the person ordering. I’m a little impressed. Truly. The confidence. The precision. The complete mastery of a beverage I didn’t even know existed.

But I am a little nostalgic.

Because somewhere along the way, we lost something important:

The Coffee Only Line.

Oh yes. It existed. At a very busy Starbucks (and maybe others, but that’s where I saw it) in Beaverton, Oregon there was once a magical, glorious option:

A separate line for people who just wanted… coffee.

No syrups.
No foam debates.
No existential milk choices.

Just coffee.

You poured your own, put cash in the basket and within seconds—SECONDS—you were on your way.

It was a thing of beauty.

Meanwhile, today’s baristas deserve a standing ovation.

They are managing:

In-person orders
App orders
Drive-thru orders
And a growing list of drinks that sound like dessert met a science experiment

All while putting names on cups or a friendly "have a good day" and keeping a straight face when someone asks for “just a hint of lavender but not too floral.”

Honestly? They’re heroes.

And then there’s the generational divide.

My teen orders something called an affogato after dinner like he’s been living in Italy his whole life. I’m still over here thinking, what is an affogato? “Is it hot? Is it cold? Why is there ice cream involved?” He explained it to me after ordering.

But maybe this is just how things evolve. Coffee didn’t get more complicated. It got more… expressive. Personal. Creative. A little over the top?

Yes. But also kind of wonderful.

Still.

If anyone out there is listening… If any brave coffee shop owner wants to change the world…

Bring back the Coffee Only Line.

You will have a loyal following of slightly confused, mildly impatient, nostalgically inclined customers who just want a cup of coffee and five extra minutes of their lives back.

I’ll be first in line. The short one. With the simple order.

“Coffee. Just… coffee.”